Proper Dancing Lessons
by She's a Star
Summary: Hermione's anxiety about Harry arriving at The Burrow the summer after fifth year is lessened slightly when she discovers Ron partaking in some interesting behaviour . . .


**Proper Dancing Lessons**

_by__ She's a Star_

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to JKR.

**Author's Note:** I started this maybe a week ago and wrote most of it before it promptly died. Valiantly, I fought my way through till the end tonight, and, well, the ending is very, very flat. But . . . it's done. Yay?

Ron's incredibly OOC in this. It kind of makes me want to kick myself. But . . . it's done. Yay?

I think I've found a new mantra.

*

            Hermione Granger was nervous.

            She supposed she shouldn't have been, after all. It was only Harry: the same old Harry she'd known ever since she was eleven. He'd grown, yes. All of them had. They were forced to, in times like these. But he was still Harry.

            _And you,_ she reminded herself sternly, _are not allowed to be afraid of him._

            And she wasn't. Not very, anyhow. She had to be a bit afraid – for him, if not _of_ him. Losing Sirius had torn him apart, and even though he'd certainly seemed all right the time she'd last seen him at King's Cross, she wasn't sure what nearly a month alone had done to him. And just because he'd seemed all right before didn't mean he had been. And he hadn't been, she was sure. He'd never be properly all right again, or not for a long while, anyway, because Sirius had been the only thing like parents he'd ever had, and now he was dead, and . . .

            Yes, Hermione Granger was nervous.

            And she really wished that Ron would finish with the dishes.

            Ever since she'd arrived at The Burrow two weeks before, she'd found that she, Ginny, and Ron were required to put in much more work around the house, due to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's nearly constant work for the Order. Hermione didn't mind, of course; she'd actually had quite a bit of fun attempting to cook with Ginny, even if they hadn't quite succeeded in making anything edible. And Ron was surprisingly competent around the house, something Hermione wouldn't have expected of him.

            But that didn't change the fact that he was taking forever washing the dishes downstairs, and she really needed to talk to him.

            She placed three of Ginny's t-shirts in a pile and pulled out one of Ron's detested maroon jumpers. Folding laundry had become her particular chore, and there was something oddly relaxing about it. Rhythmic, and simple. Everything else might be changing, but she still folded the laundry every afternoon at three.

            Harry was due to show up at five. Mr. Weasley and Ginny had left to fetch him an hour and a half before, leaving Hermione and Ron alone to straighten up the house before he came.

            Hermione hoped he wasn't terribly depressed. He had every right to be, of course, but she didn't know quite how to deal with it. As a matter of fact, she never seemed to be quite sure how to deal with Harry – he always seemed to wind up angry at her attempts to comfort him or reason with him. Ginny, she had discovered over the past year, had far more success on that front.

            _Just don't be too eager to offer advice, or to ask him to talk about it,_ she instructed herself. _He'll want to keep it to himself._

            But she felt awful even thinking about that – Harry with all of those terrible emotions, and no one to talk to about them. What kind of a friend was she if she didn't try to pry just a bit, if it meant that ultimately he'd be able to let go? To feel even the slightest bit better?

            This was all too much.

            She felt a lump forming in her throat, and her vision went suspiciously blurry for a moment. She blinked vigorously. No. She wasn't going to cry; she wasn't going to break down. Not when the world was in this state, not when her best friend needed her. She was going to be strong, and mature, and . . .

            With a  rather pathetic whimper, she buried her face into Ron's maroon jumper. It still smelled like him, a bit – fresh and with a hint of something warm and cinnamon, the way all of the Weasleys' laundry smelled, but with an undeniable trace of Ron.

            Who she needed to talk to, right now. She needed to know if he felt as terribly as she did. Then she'd be able to relax. To compose herself.

            Sniffling, she pulled away from the jumper and set it down, feeling a bit stupid. What was it Sirius had said he'd caught Kreacher doing? Snogging a pair of Mr. Black's old trousers.

            Not that the poor house elf had been able to help acting like that, of course. He'd been mistreated, which clearly led to his . . .  well, deranged behaviour, but . . . still. Hermione wasn't a house elf.

            And if she was one, she would certainly take a stand for her house elf rights.

            And then Ron would mock Hermione the house elf to no end, and she'd gone off on a completely ridiculous tangent.

Suddenly feeling very irritated, she threw the jumper down into the laundry pile and stood up, fully prepared to stomp downstairs and demand what was taking him so long.

            Five steps down, the creaky and oddly mournful-slash-energetic sound of The Weird Sisters' music began to fill her ears.

            _Oooh__, he'd better not be down here listening to music at a time like this,_ she silently fumed, speeding indignantly down the last few stairs.

            She was turning into the kitchen and had opened her mouth to snap his name when she fell silent.

            Ron was bouncing up and down and waving his arms about madly, dishrag in hand. Soap suds flew threw the air around him as he performed a rather clumsy turn, bopping his head with reckless abandon to the alarmingly rapid drum beat.

            Hermione stared.

            Ron Weasley was dancing.

            The shock subsided quickly, and she found herself overcome with a very strong desire to giggle. The entire scene was just so completely absurd . . .

            After the rather dramatic instrumental solo, the lyrics started again, and the familiar scratchy vocals of the head singer filled the kitchen—as did the far less familiar vocals of a certain redhead.

            "CREEP UP IN THE NIGHT, DEVOUR ME ALIVE! DARKER THAN MORGANA, AGAINST YOU I WON'T SURVIVE! SUGAR QUILL KISS AND EYES SO COLD! BABY, YOU'RE MY LETHIFOOOOLD!"

            The last note was drawn out rather painfully, and the sight of Ron with his eyes closed still thrashing around madly and warbling out 'lethi_fooooold_' with all his might was simply too much.

            She burst out laughing.

            Ron's eyes immediately flew open, and his ears turned a shade of red that would put any armchair in the Gryffindor common room to shame.

            "Her . . . Hermione!" he sputtered disbelievingly.

            Hermione would have made some sort of response, but was laughing so hard that she could barely manage breathing – the idea of forming a sentence seemed far too ambitious at the moment.

            "What're you doing down here? Aren't you supposed to be doing the laundry upstairs?" Ron demanded furiously. "You can't just . . . come on down here whenever you feel like it, you know! You . . . you . . ."

            The power of speech was slowly returning to her.

            "Oh . . . Ron," she gasped in between fits of mirth. "You . . . that was . . . the most hilarious . . . oh, my . . ."

            "Shuddup," Ron grumbled, staring fixedly at his feet.

            "It was . . . you are . . ." Feeling rather dizzy, she forced herself to regain some sort of composure. She took a deep breath and managed to inform him, very earnestly, "That was the most ridiculous dancing I've ever seen in my entire life."

            "Easy for you to say," Ron snapped back irritably. "As you didn't grow up with Fred and George."

            "I suppose they taught you all you know, then," Hermione said with a straight face before bursting into giggles again.

            Ron looked furious. "I . . . I just . . ."

            A new song, this one slower and even more mournful, started up on the radio, and Ron angrily spun toward it to turn it off. His arm managed to catch it as he turned, and it went crashing to the floor.

            "Damn thing," he muttered angrily, and bent down to pick it up again.

            _Do not giggle,_ Hermione instructed herself as he stood up again, glaring at her. _Remain serious. We need to be on speaking terms if we're going to face Harry. And . . ._

            She was hit full-force by the mental image of Ron howling out Weird Sisters lyrics, and she doubled over.

            "Are you going to be done with this sometime today?" Ron demanded, annoyed.

            Hermione responded with a particularly loud laugh.

            "Okay, okay," said Ron, marching over to her. "I've got your point. Ron's a big git, ha ha. Can you cut it out now??"

            "Okay," Hermione agreed, taking a steadying breath. "Fine. I'm sorry."

            "Good," Ron said shortly before turning around and focusing his attention on the potentially damaged radio. "Besides," he added, without looking back at her, "it's not like you've never done that yourself."

            "Excuse me!" Hermione said indignantly.

            "Oh, right, you wouldn't," Ron muttered darkly, "for you are Hermione, a being above us all."

            "Oh, don't get like that," Hermione ordered. "I just . . . only learned proper dancing," she said delicately. "That's all."

            "Proper dancing?" Ron repeated questioningly.

            "Well, yes," Hermione said. "Like waltzing, and the fox trot, and—"

            Ron turned to face her and rolled his eyes. "That's not dancing."

            Hermione snorted. "And this-" she waved her arms madly in demonstration, "-is?"

            "Better than the stupid fox trot," Ron shot back.

            Hermione giggled.

            "Would you quit that??"

            Hermione fell quiet obediently.

            "You know," Ron said, "I ought to teach you the right way to dance."

            Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "You mean bouncing around like some kind of idiot? I'll pass, thank you."

            "Oh, come on," Ron said, starting to grin mischievously now. "You need a bit of fun in your life."

            "That's not fun," Hermione protested. "It's stupid."

            "But didn't you ever want to know what it felt like to be stupid?" Ron inquired. "Come on, you're secretly dying to know what it's like, to be like the rest of us."

            "I hate it when you do that," Hermione told him.

            "What?" he asked, turning around and pressing a button on the WWN radio. Another Weird Sisters song began to drift through the air.

            "Act like I think I'm superior to everyone else," she said, sounding far weaker than she would have liked to.

            Ron turned and looked at her, his eyes suddenly very genuine. She felt her heart do that inconvenient melting thing that it seemed to be rather partial to doing when Ron was around.

            "I'm sorry," he said earnestly.

            "It's okay," she replied, feeling a bit taken aback.

            He took a few steps toward her, and she wondered vaguely what on earth he was doing. Certainly he wasn't . . . he hadn't _finally_ figured out . . .

            He grabbed one of her hands in his.

            Hermione thought she might faint.

            And then—

            "Right. Now I'm going to give you some proper dancing lessons," he said, and there was a playful spark in his eyes now.

            "Dancing lessons," Hermione echoed weakly.

            Ron nodded. "That's right. Now, first thing you've got to do is start moving your head a bit, like this."

            He began bopping his head idiotically from side to side, grinning infuriatingly at her all the while.

            _Honestly._

            Hermione attempted to pull away from him. "Ron, this is so stupid-"

            "Hermione," Ron said warningly, "don't make me curse you."

            Hermione scoffed. "As if you could."

            "Hey," said Ron, "you weren't the only one in the DA, you know. And besides, Ginny's been teaching me how to improve my Bat Bogey Hex this summer."

            "You wouldn't," Hermione informed him in a low tone.

            Ron made a move to reach for his wand, which was currently placed innocently on the counter. "Wouldn't I?"

            Hermione rolled her eyes and held back an indulgent smile. "All right. Fine."

            She shook her head back and forth, making sure to keep an entirely unamused expression on her face. "Is that good enough for you?"

            Ron gazed scrutinizingly at her for a moment before proclaiming, "It's a start."

            Hermione sighed, exasperated. "This really is ridiculous-"

            "Next," Ron cut in, louder, "is the feet. You've got to step all over the place like a complete moron. This is something you do when nobody's watching, mind."

            "_You're_ watching," Hermione reminded him.

            "Yeah, well, I don't count," Ron replied smugly. "I'm the teacher. Everyone should know how to dance when no one's looking." Hermione rolled her eyes again. "You'll thank me for this someday, Hermione."

            "You're an idiot," she told him, and couldn't help but smile a little.

            "Feet!" Ron barked.

            Hermione rolled her eyes – there were only so many things a person could do in a situation like this one, and eye-rolling was one of them – and began to attempt a sloppy parody of a tap dance. 

            "I don't know," Ron said, after surveying her for a moment. "It's a bit shoddy-"

            "Oh, shut up," Hermione snarled, and Ron started laughing. She leveled him with her most violent death glare.

            "What??" he demanded. "So you're allowed to laugh at me for ten minutes straight, but I can't chuckle occasionally?"

            Hermione simply gave him a lofty glance and responded, "This is so foolish."

            Ron looked as though he wanted to snap back at her for a moment before returning to his instructor mode. "Now . . ."

            He suddenly looked a bit flustered.

            "Er," he said awkwardly, "hands."

            The pair of them looked down at their entwined fingers.

            "Yes," Hermione said weakly.

            It seemed as though this was doomed to turn into one of those _moments_ that she and Ron had been having a lot lately, where everything went all still and awkward for a moment, and part of her wanted it to be over more than anything while the other part wouldn't mind it being forever.

            These moments never failed to make her feel like a complete idiot.

            "I guess you just . . . er." Ron's ears were very red. "Do . . . whatever you'd like, and—"

            A new song, fast-paced and alarmingly loud, began to spill out of the radio's speakers.

            "Excellent!" Ron muttered, and went over to turn up the volume. A very obnoxious and uneven drum beat joined the already-painful guitar riff, and Hermione felt that her head might explode.

            "Ron, how can you listen to this??" she inquired.

            Ron was bopping his head enthusiastically. "What??" he shouted.

            She took a moment to attempt to control the annoyance that was welling up in her, and then tried again. "How can you listen to this??"

            "What??"

            Hermione rolled her eyes and was content to smirk at him as he enthusiastically bopped his head up and down to the song. A painfully scratchy voice that sounded a bit like a dying cat had now joined the guitar and drums. _Oh, lovely._

            "Come on, now," Ron semi-yelled, and waved his hand at her.

            "What?" she asked blankly.

            "This song," Ron said, as though she ought to know exactly what he was talking about. "It's perfect."

            "Perfect??" Hermione repeated, incredulous. "It's _noise_."

            Ron, however, was too busy bopping his head and – Hermione resisted the urge to giggle – now waving his arms to reply.

            "Come on, Hermione!" he instructed loudly, as the vocalist let out a particularly painful wail.

            "I'm _not_ dancing to this," she informed him, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Yes, Ron Weasley could do certain things to her that others couldn't. Like turn her into a blushing fool, for instance. Or cause her to rant angrily for forty-six consecutive minutes. But he would not, would _not_ get her to dance like a newly escaped St. Mungo's patient. It wasn't going to happen, and that was that.

            She was shaken out of her protest-filled reverie when Ron snatched her hand up in his. Looking up in surprise, she saw that he looked a bit sheepish, but far more determined.

            "Don't make me '_Tarantallegra_' you," he said warningly.

            Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, you couldn't curse me if you tried."

            "Oh yea— what??"

            Ron promptly dropped her hand.

            "Nothing," Hermione said sweetly.

            "B . . . but I . . . she wasn't supposed to . . . that's it," Ron said furiously; his ears were going red again. "I'm handing Ginny's new jumper over to Crookshanks."

            "Oh, Ron, don't pout about it," Hermione ordered, and couldn't help but feel a bit smug. "It's only a middle name. We've all got one."

            "Yeah," Ron said, glowering, "but yours is Jane. You have nothing to be embarrassed about." He glared silently for a moment before turning and proclaiming, "Now, that shirt is going to get it—"

            "Ron, _don't_," Hermione said again, more sharply this time. "Ginny and I are friends. You honestly thought she wouldn't tell me?"

            Ron seemed to consider this for a moment, his expression still angry, before admitting, "Well, I guess not. But . . . still. She promised she wouldn't—"

            "Stop acting like a baby," said Hermione, grabbing his arm. "Honestly, Ron. The last thing we need is trouble when Harry's going to be here soon."

            At that, Ron stopped.

            "You're right," he agreed after a moment. He paused, then said, a bit uneasily, "How d'you think we should act around him, anyway?"

            "What?" Hermione asked softly. The lump in her throat returned quite suddenly.

            "Well, it's just . . ." Ron sighed. "I'm not sure how we're supposed to behave, now . . . y'know, with what happened to Sirius."

            "Why are you asking me?" she asked, and noted that her voice was trembling.

            _Don't cry. Don't cry._

            Ron shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. "Dunno. 'Cause you're Hermione. You know everything."

            She wasn't sure what did it. Perhaps it was the hint of helplessness in his voice, or the way his eyes were shining with an admiration she'd never seen so blatantly from him before. In any case, before she knew what had happened, tears were pouring down her cheeks.

            Ron immediately paled, and stepped toward her awkwardly. "Damn it – er, I mean, uh . . . Hermione, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

            "Oh, Ron," she sobbed, feeling very idiotic indeed – more so, she suspected, than she would if she were to dance insanely around the kitchen to The Weird Sisters. "He's going to be here soon. What are we going to do?"

            Tentatively, Ron placed a hand on her shoulder, as though he wanted to hug her but wasn't quite sure that he could get away with it. Something about this made her cry even harder – how could he be so obnoxious sometimes and then so perfect others? – and she moved forward and pressed against him, her face buried in his chest. He wrapped one arm around her, and then awkwardly patted her hair with the other. She was reminded very much of third year.

            "Tell you what," he said softly. "We're not going to bring it up. If he needs to talk, he'll come to us. We'll treat him like normal, and I reckon it'll turn out okay."

            Hermione sniffled and looked up at him. "It will?"

            Ron nodded firmly.

            Hermione knew that this was about the time she was supposed to pull away from him, but instead, feeling a bit daring, she slung her arms over his shoulders and continued leaning against him. He hugged her back, his hand still brushing lightly against her hair.

            "Hermione," he said, a bit gruffly, and she felt her heart leap. "I—"

            "Well, what have we here?"

            Ron and Hermione looked up to see Ginny standing in the doorway, grinning at them. Harry was next to her, and Hermione noted with some relief that he was smiling too.

            "Nothing," Ron and Hermione said simultaneously, pulling apart. Ron's foot slammed down onto Hermione's, and she cried out, "Ow!" before glaring at him.

            "Don't blame me if your foot was in the way," Ron shot back.

            Yes, this was good. Bickering was excellent. That way, Harry and Ginny wouldn't get . . . ideas.

            She chanced another glance over at them. Ginny was still smiling in an annoyingly knowing sort of way, but after a moment she briskly said, "Right, then. Want a butterbeer, Harry?"

            "Sure," Harry said, and sat down at the table. Ginny made her way into the kitchen, and winked at Hermione as she brushed by.

            Feeling her cheeks heat up, Hermione ignored her friend as best she could and made her way over to the table. She sank down opposite Harry, and Ron did the same.

            "Hi, Harry," she said, and reached over the table to squeeze his hand briefly. "How were things at the Dursley's?"

            "Shorter than usual," Harry replied.

            "Good thing, too," Ron said, grinning. "You've got to be here to help me practice Keeping or I'm not sure they'll let me on the team next year."

            "Have you been practicing?" Harry wanted to know.

            "A bit," said Ron. "Ginny's going out for Chaser, so we've been getting a bit of practice time in . . ."

            As the conversation spiraled into a rather lengthy discussion about Quidditch, Hermione watched silently and couldn't help but smile a little. Ron was right – things were going to be okay.


End file.
